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Her whip-of cricket's bone; the lash-of film ;
Her waggoner a small grey.coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm,
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid :
Her chariot is an empty

hazel-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,
Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers.
And in this tate she gallops, night by night,
Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love :
On courtiers' knees, that dream on court'fies strait :
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees :
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kifles dream;
Sometimes she gallops o’er a courtier's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit ;
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,
Tickling the parson as he lies asleep;
Then dreams he of another benefice.
Sometimes the driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then he dreams of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ears, at which he starts and wakes;
And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again.

SHAKSE EARE.

CHAP. XXIV.

APOTHECARY. I do remember an apothecary,

And hereabouts he dwells, whom late I noted In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,

Culling

Culling of fimples; meagre were his looks;
Sharp Misery had worn him to the bones :
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
An alligator Atuff’d, and other skins
Of ill-thap'd fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes,
Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty feeds,
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses,
Were thinly scatter'd to make up a shew..
Noting this penury, to myself I said,
An' if a man did need a poison now,
Whose fale is prefent death in Mantua,
Here lives a caitiff-wretch would sell it him.
Oh, this same thought did but fore-run my need!
And this fame nerdy man must sell it me-
As I remember, this should be the house.

SHAK-SPEARE.

CHAP. XXV.

ODE TO EVENING.

If aught of oaten ftop, or pastoral song,

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May hope, chafte Eve, to sooth thy modeft ear,

Like thy own folmn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales,
O Nymph reserv'd! while now the bright-hair'd Sun
Sits on yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts

With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed :
Now air is hysh’d, fave where the weak-eyed bat,
With short shrill shrieks fits by on leathern wing.

Or where the beetle winds

His small but süllen horn,
As oft he rises 'midft the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim born in heedless hum,

Now teach me, maid composid,

To breathe some softened strain,
Whose numbers stealing through thy dark’niog vale,
May not unseemly with its ftillness fait,

As musing flow, I hail

Thy genial, lov'd return !
For when thy folding star arising shews
His paly circlet, as his warning lamp

The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who slept in Aow'rs the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brow with fedgen And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lov'lier till,

The pensive Pleasures sweet

Prepare thy shadowy car,
Then lead, calm Vot'ress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath, or fome time-hallowed pile,

Or up-land fallows grey

Reflect its last cold gleam.
But when chill blat?ring winds, or driving rain,
Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut,

That from the mountain's fide,

Views wilds and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all

Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil.
While Spring shall pour his Show'rs, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing trelies, meekelt Eve!

While Summer loves to sport

Beneath thy lingering light:
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves ;
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes ;
So long, fure-found beneath the fylvan fhade,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lip!d Health,

Thy gentleft influence own,
And hymn thy fay'rite name!

COLLINS

CHAP. XXVI.

ODE TO SPRING.

Sweet daughter of a rough and formy fire,

WEET
Hoar Winter's blooming child : delightful spring!

Whose un shorn locks with leaves

And swelling buds are crown'd From the green illands of eternal youth, (Crown's with fresh blooms, and ever-springing fhade)

Turn, hither turn thy step,

O thou whose powerful voice
More sweet than foftest touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian fute, can footh the madding winds,

And thro' the stormy deep

Breathe thy own tender calma Thee, best belov'd! the virgin train await, With fongs and festal rites, and joy to rove P 2

Thy

Thy blooming wilds among,
And vales and dewy lawns,

With untir'd feet; and cull thy earliest sweets
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow

Of him the favour’d youth
That prompts their whisper'd figh.

Unlock thy copious stores; those tender showers
That drop their sweetness on the infant buds,

And silent dews that swell
The milky ear's green stem,

And feed the flow'ring ofier's early shoots ;
And call those winds which thro' the whisp'ring boughs

With warm and pleasant breath
Salute the blowing flowers.

Now let me fit beneath the whitening thorn
And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale ;

And watch with patient eye
Thy fair unfolding charms.

O Nymph, approach! while yet the temperate fun
With bashful forehead, thro' the cool moist air

Throws his young maiden beams,
And with chaste kisses woos

The earth's fair bosom ; while the streaming veil
Of lucid clouds with kind and frequent shade

Protects thy modest blooms
From his severer blaze,

Sweet

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